


Damaged

by Captain_Kieren



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Gen, Hurt Sherlock, Hurt/Comfort, If You Squint - Freeform, Injury, Not Slash, Oh Mrs H, Protective John, Protective Lestrade, Wounds, could be considered pre-slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-03
Updated: 2017-05-04
Packaged: 2018-10-27 19:27:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,827
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10815237
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Captain_Kieren/pseuds/Captain_Kieren
Summary: A variety of hurt!Sherlock/Protective!John drabbles I've written between my other stories. Absolutely no idea how many of these there are going to be but here you go. Enjoy. Johnlock if you squint. Based on tumblr prompts.





	1. Glass Wounds

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: So I know I've been gone for like...a really long time...sorry. Basically, I've been horribly busy with a. college, b. work, c. personal writing projects. (On the bright side, I wrote 2 novellas so yay!) HOWEVER! I do miss my first-love which is fanfictions so this is what I'm going to do. I'm gonna TRY to keep these short (try being the operative word here)...  
> Also, these are all based on tumblr prompts basically lol  
> Enjoy(?

Prompt 1: Broken Glass Wounds

_Summary: This one's not so heavy on the whump, more focused on the comfort (and John's beautiful snark)._

* * *

 

The first time John's mobile pings, he ignores it. It's three in the morning and he's only just laid down after getting Rosie back to sleep for the third time tonight. The second time it pings, he sighs heavily and rolls over in his bed, sandwiching his pillow over his ears. It's only Sherlock--he's the only arsehole in all of London who'd have the gal to text someone at three a.m.--and whatever he wants, it can wait till morning. That's when the phone begins to ring.

  
John's heart jumps into his throat at the shrill noise piercing the careful silence of his suburban home. Instantly, Rosie begins to sob in the nursery.

  
"Jesus Christ, Sherlock!" John jumps up furiously, snatching the mobile off its charger as he runs to the nursery. "Coming, darling," he says softly, opening the door. "Calm down, daddy's here." As he rocks his sniffling daughter, John swipes right on the glowing screen. "This had better be important, Sherlock," he whispers. Rosie's tiny hands are playing sleepily with the buttons of his night shirt as her frightened wails turn to yawning hiccups. When there's no response, John blinks and takes the phone away from his ear, glancing at the screen. Yes, he's connected. "Sherlock?"

  
Rosie coos at the familiar name, groping for the phone. John smiles and shakes his head, craning his neck to keep her tiny paws off his mobile.

  
"Sherlock? Come on, it's three in the bloody morning. Are you there?"

  
The call ends abruptly, as if the connection was lost. John frowns at the screen, laying Rosie back down in her cradle as her eyes drift shut. Carefully switching to vibrate in case of another call, he opens his messages. The number isn't Sherlock's but the messages are signed with his signature.

  
_Baker Street now_  
_\--SH_

  
_Now John. Otherwise Mrs Hudson is going to call an ambulance._  
_\--SH_

  
John blinks at the second text, feeling his heart rate increase slightly. Peeking into the cradle to be sure Rosie is asleep, John vacates the nursery and stabs out Sherlock's speed dial, holding the phone to his ear as it rings out. "Come on, Sherlock... Pick up."

  
_"You have reached the voicemail box of 020--"_

  
"Oh come on, you cock. This had better not be another one of your damned tricks." John hangs up and swipes through his contacts, but Mrs. Hudson doesn't answer either when he calls.

  
Standing in the middle of his living room in his pajamas and slippers, hair mussed, face still marked with pillow creases, John scowls at the ceiling.

  
"Fine," he mutters to himself. "Fine. I'll go to bloody Baker Street." John grumbles under his breath the entire time he's throwing on his coat and lacing up an actual pair of shoes. He stops only once he returns to the nursery, scooping Rosie into his arms, wrapping her in a blanket, and grabbing her diaper bag.

  
Thankfully, his next door neighbor is a god send. A retired widow who has made it exceedingly clear that any time, any day, she will be happy to watch Rosie for him. She reads his blog, evidently. So when John jogs across the lawn to the little house next door, knocks, and the woman opens up to find him half dressed and peevish with Rosie in his arms, she just laughs and cradles the baby against her chest.

  
"Tell Mr. Holmes I said hello," she says.

  
John smiles thinly. "I will. And thank you so much."

  
"It's my pleasure, dear."

  
With that, John hops into the car and veers out onto the road, gunning it toward central London.

* * *

 

Jesus Christ, what's happened?

  
John parks along the sidewalk, throwing open the car door. A small crowd has gathered outside the flat, including one very perturbed looking police man who keeps shuffling from foot to foot and looking around. The front door hangs open and the road and sidewalk are littered with broken glass, one of the windows overhead is busted out. The officer's eyes land on John as he rushes over, squeezing through the crowd.

  
"It's alright, I'm a doctor," he says when the officer tries to stop him.

  
"John?" Mrs. Hudson suddenly appears before him just as he's breaking the line of the crowd. "Thank goodness you're here. Maybe you can talk some sense into that funny head of his! He certainly won't listen to me. I mean, who gets pushed through a second story window and then refuses to go to the hospital?"

  
"Pushed through a window?--Sherlock." John finds his friend sitting just inside the doorway on the steps. His face is littered with cuts, some deeper than others, blood staining the collar of his white shirt. He looks incredibly pissed off, scowling to himself even when he notices John.

  
"Before you ask," he says before John can even speak. "No, I have not sustained any head injuries, nothing is broken, and for the last bloody time, I do not need to go to the hospital."

  
"Yeah, good morning to you too, Sherlock. Turn your head." John kneels in front of him, prodding Sherlock's head to the side, where a long line of blood is running from his scalp. Could be the great detective made an error concerning that head injury. "How'd this happen?"

  
"Got pushed through the window."

  
"By whom?"

  
"Client. Well, he said he was a client."

  
"And I'm assuming he wasn't."

  
"Yep." He pops the P for emphasis, glaring at the crowd past John's head. "Why are they staring at me?"

  
"They're concerned." John moves his examination to Sherlock's neck and shoulders, which are also cut to ribbons. Nothing too deep, though.

  
"What for? I'm a complete stranger to them."

  
"Follow my finger." John holds his index finger in front of Sherlock's eyes, moving it slowly back and forth. Surprisingly, Sherlock plays along with only a minimal amount of grumbling. "Where'd this 'client' go?"

  
Sherlock shrugs. "Ran off. I'll text Lestrade the details later so he can apprehend him."

  
"Why was he trying to kill you?"

  
"Don't know. Didn't get a lot of time to ask him as I was falling out the window. Ow--what are you doing?"

  
"That hurt?" John looks up in surprise. He'd been feeling around Sherlock's legs to be certain nothing was sprained or broken, as he said.

  
"I said ow, didn't I?"

  
"Alright, straighten your leg. Let me see." Sherlock draws a sharp breath and jumps a bit as John straightens his left leg.

  
"Mrs. Hudson," he yells, startling the poor old woman just outside the flat. Through gritted teeth, he snaps, "Stop being such a git and shut the door!"

  
"Sherlock," John mutters, glaring at him. "Be nice." Mrs. Hudson huffs in anger but obeys, closing the door on the dozens of curious onlookers. After that, she stomps past the boys and into her own flat, slamming the door so hard a picture rattles and falls off the wall. "You're going to apologize to her later, you know."

  
"I don't apologize."

  
"Yeah, I know..." John finally manages to roll up Sherlock's black pant leg past the tender spot. Pursing his lips, he sighs heavily. "Well, that would explain it."

  
Sherlock hums.

  
A large piece of glass is inbedded in Sherlock's skin, so deep it was almost unnoticeable under the slightly torn pant leg. Barely any blood seeps through, the shard acting as a cork in a bottle. John chews the inside of his cheek. "Well, looks like you are going to the hospital after all."

  
"Oh, please. Don't be so dramatic."

  
"Sherlock. You've got a shard of glass half the size of my hand inbedded four inches from a major artery. Yes, you're going to the hospital."

  
"For God's sakes John, you're an army doctor. You've dealt with gun shots, shrapnel riddled bodies, even the occasional severed limb, I'd imagine. I think you can handle a little piece of glass." With that, Sherlock stands straight up and walks up the steps.  
Well, halfway up.

  
"Woah, woah--" John has to jump up to catch him as his punctured leg suddenly fails him. As he loops Sherlock's arm around his shoulders and they slowly, clumsily make their way up to the living room, John's phone pings in his pocket. He deposits Sherlock on the couch and heads to the bathroom for first aid supplies, glancing at the text as he walks. It's Lestrade.

  
_Heard there was some excitement at Baker Street. Everything okay? Couldn't get ahold of Sherlock._

  
_Just the usual. Actually we could use some help from The Yard. I'll get the details from Sherlock,_ John replies.

  
Loaded down with the necessary equipment, he returns to find Sherlock inspecting his injury. "Don't touch that, you could make it bleed. Also text Lestrade the details of your "client"."

  
"Can't."

  
"Why not?"

  
"Mobile's broken. Landed on it when I fell."

  
Ah, so that's why John couldn't get through earlier. "Use mine." He hands it over and Sherlock starts tapping at the keys. It's impressive how natural he's acting. There's no way that injury doesn't hurt like hell. Still, it's about to get a lot worse... "This is your last chance to change your mind, Sherlock. I don't have anything to numb you."

  
"Pain is just a trick of the mind. It's your brain's way of telling you you're hurt. I already know I'm hurt, therefore pain is useless. Mind over matter, John."

  
John pauses, a pair of small metal tongs in his hand. "Are you trying to tell me you're going to somehow shut off your pain receptors?"

  
"Of course." He doesn't even look up from the screen.

  
John sighs. "You know that's impossible?"

  
"Nothing's impossible. I see this as the perfect opportunity to test a hypothesis of mine. That a great mind is capable of controlling its body's functions through a combination of anatomical knowledge, will power, and discipline."

  
Throwing his hands into the air, John shakes his head. "I guess we'll see." Bracing Sherlock's knee with one hand, John grabs the end of the shard with the tongs. With a sharp tug, it slips out. For a second, John thinks Sherlock must have been right somehow. He doesn't jerk, doesn't make a sound. He glances up and smirks thinly. His friend's face is red, his eyes closed against the obvious pain.

  
"Alright, Sherlock?"

  
"Yeah--t's fine." He clears his throat, shifting slightly. "Completely...fine."

  
"I did warn you." John soaks a rag with alcohol and cleans away the blood as it spills out. "Now, you have two choices, Sherlock. One: you stop being a child and go to the hospital so they can numb you for stitches. Or two: I give you stitches without any numbing, using Mrs Hudson's sewing needle. It's very big you know. Her eye sight's not what it used to be..." Sherlock scowls down at John, who just smiles meekly up at him. "So shall I call a cab?"

  
"Yes, fine. You win." Sherlock winces as John wraps the bandages quickly around his leg and dials the number.

  
"This is indeed one for the history books," John says as the mobile rings. "The Great Sherlock Holmes admits he's wrong. Maybe I'll write a blog about this monumental occasion."

  
"Shut up, John."


	2. Choked

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: I really shouldn't be doing this...my poor manuscript...

Prompt 2: Choked

* * *

 

John's room at Baker Street is exactly how he left it. Not a thing has been changed since the day he moved out, nothing but the dust which Mrs. Hudson dutifully keeps up with the same as if he still lived there.

  
Since Mary's death, John's been staying at the flat more and more. Rosie likes it there; she absolutely adores Sherlock and he seems to have a soft spot for her as well, containing his experiments to the kitchen which is blocked by a baby gate. Often times, John will go downstairs to chat with Mrs. Hudson only to return and find little Rosie standing against the gate watching her godfather tinker with chemicals and microscope slides. Occasionally, he can even be convinced to leave his daughter in Sherlock's care (with Mrs. Hudson as a backup) while he goes to work.

  
It's on one of those somewhat rare occasions that John receives a phone call from Mrs. Hudson. Waist deep in patient files and tubes of anti-itch cream, however, he doesn't recognize the number at first.

  
"Dr. John Watson," he answers, flipping through a stack of papers on his desk.

  
_"Oh hello, John."_ Mrs. Hudson sounds pleasant and happy as always, but there's a strain beneath her sunshine.

  
"Mrs. Hudson? Is something wrong?"

  
_"No, no, dear, nothing's wrong...well...actually we've had a bit of a break in."_

  
"What?" John stands from his desk. The door to his office opens but he holds out a finger to the nurse who's come to get him. "What happened? Is Rosie okay?"

  
_"Oh yes, Rosie's fine dear, she's with me."_

  
"What about you? Are you alright? And Sherlock? Have you called the police? What happened?"

  
_"I'm fine and I'm sure Sherlock is too. Yes, I've called the police but you know how slow they are. I figured I should call you too, just to let you know."_

  
Deflating with a sigh, John sinks back down, smiling apologetically at the nurse in his doorway. "You scared the life out of me, Mrs. Hudson. So what did happen? Did they take anything?"

  
_"Oh I don't know dear, it's still going on."_

  
John blinks. "What?"

  
_"He's still upstairs. There was a bit of a ruckus before but it's gone quiet now. I was about to go out and have a look see, make sure he's alright--"_

  
"No, do not go out there yet." John's hand passes over his face, his heart hammering against his ribs. "Jesu--alright, hang on. I'm coming right away." He jumps up again, pushing past the nurse who calls after him in confusion. "I'm sorry, Monica, I've got to go! Emergency!" He snags his coat on the way out the door and hails a cab. "Mrs. Hudson, why didn't you tell me it was still going on? Did you just take your soothers, by any chance?"

  
_"Oh, dear, I wouldn't worry. You know how Sherlock is. He's used to fighting bad guys, you know. Much better bad guys as well."_

  
"Yes, fair enough but..." Rubbing his forehead, John tells the cabbie the address and they take off. "I'm still coming. Just you and Rosie stay locked up in your flat and I'll be there as soon as I can. How long ago did you call Scotland Yard?"

  
_"Right before you, why?"_

  
"No reason." John clicks open his briefcase and, from beneath files and stethoscopes and various other medical tools, he pulls out his gun. Ejecting the magazine, he counts the rounds, clicks it back in and cocks the weapon. His foot taps anxiously the whole way but his hand never shakes a single time.

* * *

 

The cab drops him off outside the flat and John deposits his briefcase and jacket on the sidewalk, pressing his ear to the door before entering. Of course he arrived before the police. The arched, black door creaks open and he pads across the tiled entryway floor, opening the interior door just as quietly. All looks well, undisturbed as if nothing has happened. Mrs. Hudson's flat is shut tight and, true to her word, the entire place is deathly quiet.

  
He stops at the bottom of the steps, craning his neck to see into the rooms above. No such luck, however. Drawing a steadying breath, John creeps up the steps, gun at the ready. He expertly avoids the ninth step--which creaks loudly if any weight is placed on it--and finally reaches the door. It hangs open just a crack and John helps it the rest of the way, entering gun-first.

  
The living room and kitchen are empty. No burglar. No Sherlock. Shit. John turns down the hall, pushes open the bathroom door and grimaces. Empty. The only other place he hasn't looked is Sherlock's bedroom. He puts one hand on the knob, twists slowly, and throws the door open. It bangs against the interior wall and John jumps in, aiming the pistol at the burglar's head.

  
Or where the burglar's head should have been, anyway.

  
Instead, the gun almost falls out of his hands, every muscle in his body jumping at once. "Jesus Christ...!" He fumbles, laying the weapon on the floor as he scrambles to Sherlock's side.

  
A length of wire is wrapped around Sherlock's throat, a bit of blood running down his neck where it cut into him. His lips are tinged blue, his eyes closed. He lays flat on his back below the open window, where the burglar must have escaped.

  
"Sherlock!" John presses two fingers to his inner wrist, eyes squeezing shut. "Come on, you cock...don't do this." He sighs in relief, feeling the weak, rapid flutter under his fingers. "Mrs. Hudson," he yells at the top of his lungs. "It's safe now! Come up here please!"

  
Downstairs, he hears the sound of the door unlocking while he holds the back of his hand just above Sherlock's lips. No air passes through them, at least not that he can feel.

  
He lowers his cheek, whispering urgently when he still doesn't feel any breath.

  
Mrs. Hudson appears then in the doorway of the bedroom, cradling Rosie against her chest. The one year old seems unharmed and unaware of what's happened. She coos at seeing her daddy and reaches for him. "Oh my!" Mrs. Hudson clasps a hand over her mouth.

  
"Call an ambulance," John instructs her, shifting to a kneel. "He isn't breathing."

  
She hurries away without another word, taking Rosie with her. John lays his hands on Sherlock's unmoving chest and presses down hard, once, twice, three times...

  
"Come on, you complete dickhead..."

  
Down below, he can hear sirens screaming in their direction. Not the ambulance, not yet. Just Scotland Yard. He continues the compressions, grimacing with each creak of Sherlock's ribs.

  
When Mrs. Hudson returns, her eyes are red with unfallen tears. "Is there anything I can do," she asks, clutching Rosie to her chest.

  
"Did you--call the ambulance?" Nine times, ten, eleven...

  
"Yes."

  
"Then just watch--Rosie. And when Scotland--Yard shows up, tell them the burglar escaped though--this window here and to have a look around for the--bastard." Fifteen, sixteen, seventeen...shit... _shit!_

  
After three minutes without oxygen, the brain starts to deteriorate. And Sherlock's been laying here without air for God knows how long.

  
"Come on, you prick!" John moves from the compressions up to Sherlock's face, pinching his nose--his skin is cold--as he breathes air into his friend's lungs. He pulls back. Still nothing. Still no response.

  
John's eyes are misty and his arms burn from the compressions but he keeps on. Mouth to mouth is a bit outdated nowadays but Sherlock needs air and that's all that matters. Even if it doesn't work. He'll try anything.

  
"Please, Sherlock. Stop this now." Twenty, twenty-one, twenty-two... Breathe.

  
Twenty-three

  
Twenty-four

  
Twenty-five

Breathe.

  
Twenty-six

  
Twenty-seven

  
Twenty-eight

  
Breathe...

  
Heavy feet thunder up the steps. Lestrade sprints into the bedroom, chest heaving, eyes wide. "Oh God..."

  
"Where the hell is the _bloody ambulance_ ," John yells, panting.

  
"They're five minutes out," Lestrade says. "Is he--"

  
"He can't wait that long for Christ's sake! He could go into cardiac arrest any second now. He might already have brain damage from lack of oxygen." John's arms are burning, his head spinning from giving all his oxygen to Sherlock.

  
"I can take over. I know how to do CPR," Greg offers, seeing John's trembling arms.

  
"No, I've got it..."

  
"John, mate, let me help--"

  
" _No_ , I've _got it_!"

  
Thirty-four

  
Thirty-five

  
Thirty-six...

  
"Breathe, Sherlock... Please."

  
Just as John pinches Sherlock's nose again and is leaning down, he feels the body below him spasm.

  
Sherlock breathes in long and ragged, the air tearing down his throat, ribs expanding, his back arched off the ground. Greg visibly jumps, hovering in the doorframe like a specter as Sherlock slowly rouses, gasping, eyes dragging open. Clumsy hands reach up to his throat, hang there, grasping for a moment as his breaths even out and slow down. For a long and painful minute, he doesn't speak, doesn't react at all to the other presences in the room.

  
Finally, unable to take anymore, John leans in and touches his arm. "Sherlock? Mate? You alright?"

  
Drowsy, ice-blue eyes drift sideways to his face. "J'hn?" Sherlock winces, swallowing. There's a thin purple bruise around his neck and his face is painfully white. The blue color still hasn't completely gone from his mouth.

  
"How you feeling?"

  
Sherlock pauses, tries to speak, flinches, licks his lips, and tries again. "Not great." His voice is rough as sand paper.

  
"Headache?"

  
"Oh yeah."

  
"Scale from one to ten."

  
"Erm, six."

"What's you name?"

  
"What?" Even in this condition, he looks at John as if he's an idiot.

  
"Just go with me here."

  
Sherlock sighs. "Sherlock."

  
"Full name."

  
"William Scott Sherlock Holmes."

  
"Your first name is William," Lestrade chimes in, stupefied.

  
"How old are you," John continues, ignoring him.

  
"Thirty-four."

  
"What's your address?"

  
"221B Baker Street--come on, John. If you're really testing my mental capacity here, you might ask me something a little more challenging."

  
John sits back and rolls his eyes. "You're fine."

  
"I've got one for you. Who the hell attacked you? Who are we looking for," Lestrade asks suddenly. Sherlock pauses, thinking back. As he does, he tries to sit up but John holds him down, which turns out to be quite easy. Starved of oxygen and shaking like a newborn fawn, Sherlock collapses back to the floor.

  
"He was...a man of approximately thirty years, lives somewhere in Central London, though not too close to Baker Street. His shoes were muddy so I would say somewhere near a park or a garden of some kind. He was wearing a mask so I couldn't see his face but he had brown hair--there were tiny flecks of it sticking out through one of the eye holes. Longer hair, then too. His eyes were grey. He owns two cats: one ginger, one white, and a dog. German Shepherd I think. He's an athlete of some kind, incredibly strong and fast for such a narrow build. He's married and, oh, dust the doorknob over there for prints. I managed to pull off one of his gloves so there's a possibility he touched it with his bare hand. Sorry, that's all I managed to get. He was strangling me, after all..."

  
John and Greg stare, dumbfounded, as the ambulance pulls up outside.

  
"You think he got brain damage?"

  
John snorts and shakes his head. "Even if he did, he'd still make the rest of us look like babbling twits.

 

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: And there you have it :) (can't believe I actually succeeded in keeping this short wow)


End file.
